


Man's Allotted Span

by Janissa11



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's continuing adventures on the Bering Sea. Sequel to "Land's End."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They're holed up in Custer City, Oklahoma, and Dean's about to lose his mind.

Dad's a fucking godawful patient. Bad enough that the tussle with the pack of goblins -- pack? They've already argued four times about the right word, and Dean's pretty sure it isn't "pack" but he's so damn mad at his father right now he'll call it a pack to the end of his days, just for freakin' spite -- left Dad with eight broken bones and about two dozen gashes that required stitching. Oh, and also scared a good ten years off Dean's life, let's not forget.

No, it's worse, because Dad's just -- Dad. He's stoic enough to put the Spartans to shame, except when he's whining about being laid up, or they got shit to do, no time for this, or can't a man just get to the goddamn HEAD by himself, and whatever else. Silent except for bitching about Dean's cooking or Dean's nursing skills or Dean's hunting skills.

Bitching about money. Like Dean isn't providing the lifestyle to which His Honor John Winchester ESQUIRE has become accustomed or some shit.

After a month Dean's ready to kill him, himself, patricide ahoy, and move to California and learn to surf with some of Sam's buddies. Although Sam's friends probably all have slide rules or something, and two-inch-thick glasses and never saw a board except on reruns of _Point Break_, but point is: Dean's gonna cut a goddamn bitch pretty soon.

It all comes to a head one night when Dad's hurting and can't sleep, and Dean's up and keeping him company for some dumb-ass reason, nursing a bottle of bottom-shelf bourbon. And he's talking, just making noise, something to make the time go by, and Dad finally snaps, "So if you want to go back and freeze your balls off in Alaska, why don't you just go?"

Dean stares at him, struck dumb. He -- Okay, he talks about Alaska some. Sure. The work had been hell and the weather sucked, but the money was all right, saw them through the winter and into the spring, and that was all right. And he thinks about it some, kinda more now that the weather's turning cold and some little rat inside his brain is whispering about how it's the season now.

But he hasn't had time to think about going back or anything. Last year he was just filling in for some guy in a car wreck; it isn't like he's making a career out of it, for God's sake. A fisherman he ain't -- or, well, not normally. He's played one on tv, that's all. Bring on the stunt fisherman guy.

Dad watches him, face pale and drawn with tiredness so profound it hasn't let him sleep easily all week, and finally he says, "Go earn us some run-out cash. It's what you want to do, dude." He doesn't even sound annoyed anymore. Just exhausted, and faintly amused. "I'm out for the count, probably can't get back in the game for a couple months. And we could use the money."

Dean says stiffly, "Somebody's gotta take care of you."

"Bullshit. You're driving me fucking crazy, hovering like that. Come on. You sit there and you tell me you didn't enjoy what you did last winter, and that you don't think about how it's crab season now and you're missing out. Go on, tell me."

Dean sits a minute, silent again, because first, he doesn't know how Dad knew it was crab season, which means Dad's given it some thought on his own. Dean sure hasn't mentioned that fact. And second, Dad's kinda right. He did enjoy it, as much as you can enjoy the hardest fucking work you've ever done in your life, and some part of him, reluctant and vaguely embarrassing, does feel like he's missing out. It's not like other-kids-going-to-camp-and-missing-that-fun missing-out. It's -- Well. Just.

"Um," Dean says.

Dad's face softens, not quite a smile but close. "So go," he says. "Stop wasting your time wiping your old man's ass and go do it."

Dean stirs, and mumbles, "Probably don't got a spot this season."

"Maybe not. Find out."

"Kinda late."

"So?"

Dean stares at his hands, glances at Dad, studies his fingers some more. Then he says, "Maybe I'll call. See what's up."

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

"You show up at the airport, I'll have a ticket waiting in your name."

It's ridiculously great to hear Gib's voice, and it makes Dean feel kinda funny inside to hear what he has to say. There's just one hitch. "Dude," Dean says in a slightly wobbly voice, "I don't do the flying thing."

"You wanna work this season," Gib says promptly, "you fly. We're already in Dutch. You wanna catch up, you get your ass up here pronto, and unless you picked up a transporter this year, that's gonna mean flying."

"Aw, man."

"Have a couple drinks. Just get on the goddamn plane. Be good to see you."

"Yeah," Dean says. "You too, man."

Dad's lying on his bed reading _Fortean Times_ when Dean comes back inside. "You going?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, he, ah. The guy that had the wreck last year, he got some kinda disability. So Gib said come on up."

Dad's teeth shine white in the lamplight. He looks better than he has in weeks, and Dean figures it's because he's been on Dad's last nerve just as much as Dad's been on his. "Good deal. Leaving soon?"

"Gotta catch a plane tomorrow."

Dad gives him a look, and Dean shrugs.

Later, when the lights are out and they aren't either one of them sleeping, Dean says, "You'll call, right? If you need anything?"

"Dude, I'll be fine. Don't worry."

"Just --"

"Just don't drop the phone this time."

"Yeah. Okay."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

He gets tanked on the plane, only way to go, and when the plane's finally on the ground again he thinks it's probably not the best idea he's ever had, but the cold air slaps some sobriety into him, and Gib's right there with company. Manly back-thumping hugs, some deserved shit about the list in Dean's gait.

"Ain't even got to the water yet," says Larry, crooked teeth showing in a ridiculous grin.

Alex is sticking close, not saying much but eyes shining, and Gib's smiling too, and Dean fights down a surge of what feels an awful lot like joy. How completely fucking weird. He loves these guys. How the hell did THAT happen?

The SUV's crowded with all of them packed in, and Dean doesn't have to talk, just listen, while he gets updates on all kinds of crap. Who's back this season, and more notably who isn't. The names and ships don't mean a lot to him sometimes, but other news does.

"What's derby-style?" he asks finally, when he can be heard over the general shouting fest.

"What we do," says Gib, shrugging. "Until next season."

Turns out Fish and Wildlife, or some other bunch of suits, has decided that the traditional balls-to-the-wall crab fisheries will be a thing of the past after this year. From next year on, there'll be quotas or some shit like that. Supposed to be safer, better for the crab, environment, something.

"That…takes all the fun out of it," Dean says, puzzled. He looks at Gib, and sees him nod.

"Still be tough. How much you're allotted next season is based on how well we did this season." Gib's still nodding. "So you see."

"Yeah," Dean breathes. "Need this one to be a good one."

"No problem," says Gary. "We got Lucky back."

The guys laugh, and Alex -- still mostly silent and ever-present at Dean's side -- gives him a nudge with his shoulder. Dean grins, but he's watching Gib, sees the tension in his jaw. It's no joke, needing a good season. It's pressure, and all of a sudden Dean's feeling it.

* * *

He bunks with Larry again while they wait to ship out. It all feels familiar, and it's another jolt to realize he likes that familiarity, likes recognizing some faces, knowing the way to the bars. Nobody tries to fight with him, just a few nods here and there and a couple of evil eyes. He isn't sure if he's disappointed or not. Mostly not.

While they're loading bait he sees a bunch of guys with non-fishing equipment.

"TV crew," Gary says, shading his eyes to look at them. "Doing some kinda documentary."

Dean blinks at him. "On us?"

"What they say."

"Um. Why?"

Dave gives a coarse laugh. "Most dangerous job in America, ain't you heard?"

"Deadliest Catch," Alex tells him softly. "That's what they're calling it. The show."

"You're shitting me. We're gonna be on TV?"

"Dad didn't want a crew on board. That's what they're doing, shipping out with some of the boats. But this season…" Alex trails off, looks away.

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "Last derby."

"_Northwestern's_ got a tv crew," Gary says. "Don't you know ol' Sig's eating that up."

The _Northwestern's_ one of the only boats Dean can remember from last season. A hair smaller than the _Sally_, good take last year. He shrugs. "Well, if they're anything like us, I hope that tv crew's from HBO or whatever. We'd get bleeped out of existence, dude."

Everybody laughs, and agrees, and it's back to loading, the familiar shape and odor of herring and cod. Dean watches the tv guys when he gets the chance, thinks about having some guy with a camera following him around while he works. Immediately decides it would be a royal pain in his very fine ass.

And then he thinks, Sammy could watch. See me earn an honest buck for once.

It's been a year and a half. He hates how it feels longer, and then like it was fifteen minutes ago.

Sam's never gonna watch him fish. Hell, he's never even gonna know.

Dean inhales, smells salt and diesel and dead cod, and shrugs.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

The cameras are annoying. The guys are everywhere, poking into everybody's business, and Dean isn't the only one feeling overexposed. These guys don't like change, that much is clear.

"Just do your fucking job," Gib says when Larry bitches about it. "We're in the crab business, not show business."

The tension in the air isn't all from the cameras, but Dean keeps his head down anyway, doesn't complain when Gib lights into him about one thing or another. It's Gib's way, and it isn't like Dean's the only one on the sharp end of the skipper's tongue.

Work gets done, in spite of the lookie-loos, and the night before they ship out Dean drinks too much, screws a pretty nameless girl in one of the Elbow Room's back rooms, and then pukes in the alley.

"Wonder if the cameras got that," he slurs while Larry half-carries him to the apartment.

"Hope they did."

"Realism. Drinking, screwing, and working our asses off. That's what crab fishing's all about."

"Whatever you say," says Larry, and hangs onto Dean's belt while he bends over and pukes again.

Hot coffee and a handful of aspirin help his hangover the next morning, and a few minutes of cold harbor air get rid of the rest. It's a pure relief when they get gone, leaving booze, girls, and television cameras behind.

Or until the buck and sway of the deck under his feet sends the first rumble of discontent through his belly.

"Fuckin'." He blinks away salt and stares murderously at the horizon. "Not this again."

Alex, never far away, moves closer, so he's the lucky guy to have a front-row seat when Dean horks about half an hour later.

"Didn't get his sea-legs yet," someone says over Dean's bent back. "He'll be all right."

"Kill me," Dean moans against the rail.

"Eyes front," Gib says, and Dean looks blearily back at the sea. It's a little slanted, off-kilter, and he swallows bile.

* * *

According to Alex, they're headed northwest at a pretty good clip. Dean doesn't see the first of it. He's below, renewing his acquaintance with the head and generally wondering when exactly he went insane enough to think that this fishing gig was a good idea. Well, at least Dad oughta be happy: Dean's feeling just about as rotten as he was, back in Oklahoma.

But Alex and Larry keep him updated, bring him soda and crackers, and for whatever reason Dean doesn't get quite as sick this time as last year. A solid day spent yarking, another half-day of talking himself out of it, and by early afternoon the second day he's back on deck, a little shaky but already feeling like he's ready to drop some pots.

"Next season," Gib says through a cloud of smoke, "you won't have any trouble at all."

Next season, Dean thinks, and has to smile. "Maybe not."

Not many boats come out this far. They're shouting distance from Russia, and it is flat-out unbelievably cold.

"Freakin' Siberia," Dean says through clenched teeth. "Any crab up here?"

"Couple seasons ago we came up here," Gary tells him. "Froze our asses off, but had a great season." He grins at Dean, and then hisses at the cold wind on his teeth. "Almost as good as last year's, Lucky."

"No pressure," Dean mutters.

Only a couple other boats have come up this far north, and one of them is the _Northwestern_. Sig Hansen and his brother Edgar come up often enough in conversation that it doesn't take much for Dean to figure out that's pretty much the principal rivalry going.

"They're all right," says Larry, but there's a gleam in his eye Dean has come to recognize. "Hansens know what they're doing."

But later Alex tells him, "I nearly shipped out on the _Northwestern_ two years ago."

Dean stares at him. "No shit?"

"Dad didn't think I was ready. Pissed me off, you know? So I ask Sig if he's hiring, and he says he'll take me on."

"And?"

Alex grins, but it's cautious. "Dad nearly stroked out. Only time I ever thought he was really gonna punch me."

Dean looks away. "Man, that's some rivalry you guys got going on. Why's everybody hate the Hansens?"

"They're good," Alex says simply. "And so are we."

Dean doesn't ask Gib about it. But after chow that evening Gib says, "Hansens are greedy, Lucky. Get greedy and it's awful easy to get dead up here."

Privately Dean thinks the _Northwestern_ doesn't sound any greedier than the _Sally_ or any other boat, wanting the biggest take they can get. Why else freeze your ass off in Alaska if not to get as much as you can?

It isn't that different from hunting, really. He's seen competition before, couple of guys here and there wanted the hunt for themselves, didn't like seeing John and his sons getting in on the action. Stupid, in Dean's opinion. Just look at how three-legged their team is, without Sammy. Ain't a thing wrong with a little teamwork.

But he nods and keeps his mouth shut, because Gib looks tense, and well, Dean would just as soon not get his first taste of swimming in the Bering anytime soon.

* * *

"Fuckin'," Dean grates, shaking out his hands. "What the fuck."

"Little nippy out here, huh?" Larry grins and tugs his cap down over his ears. "Got soft on the mainland there, Lucky, didja?"

It's the same grind, and even though he's a full deckhand now they don't have a greenhorn this season, and he's fast and knows what he's doing, so he's back on bait. Whatever; moving around keeps him warmer. But the smell hasn't gotten any rosier since last year, that much is for damn sure.

Alex takes a turn at bait, gives Dean a shot at the rail, and he revises last season's opinion that the rail guys have it easier. It's not just cold over here, it's wet, constant spray hissing in his face, waves slopping over the side, licking inside his boots, cold trickles down his wrists.

Ain't no job on this boat a soft one, except maybe the skipper, and Dean's pretty glad he doesn't sit up there, either. Nothing like the pressure of seeing if you can magically locate where the crab are at the moment. Guys depending on you for their livelihood.

No, thanks.

By morning they have sixty pots taking a good long soak, and Dean pounds down a heart-attack-on-a-plate breakfast and crashes in his bunk.

Thirty hours later he is by no means ready to take any credit for their luck, despite his nickname. But no question it's a good start, a great start. Gib's called it right, they're on the crab, and even seeing the _Northwestern_ bobbing off the bow, guys tiny as bees busy on her deck, doesn't mess with their morale.

"Oh yeah," Gary crows, grinning at the huge pile of crab spilling out of the latest pot. "Come to Papa."

Takes the wind out of their sails -- so to speak -- when Gib calls them inside.

"They ain't callin' it, are they?" Larry asks, but there's no need; Dean can read Gib's sour face like a book.

"24 hours," Gib says.

"Fuck," Alex whispers. "We just barely got started!"

Gib ignores him, and everyone else, too. "So that's the score. We gotta hit it hard."

Dean nods with the rest of them, and thinks, And we haven't been already?

Wonders how his dad is getting along on his own, bum leg and all, but when he goes on deck a wave slaps him in the face, ice-cold and stinging, and all he can focus on is the job.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later, back in Dutch, he's got a serious-ass check in his wallet and a decision to make.

"So this is what you do, dude." Alex's breath is beery and his eyes bright as the sun. "Grab a flight out, go check on your old man. Make sure he's okay; I mean, I know you've been worried, right?"

Dean sips his whiskey and inclines his head a fraction. He's going around breaking all the Winchester rules lately; leaving his dad behind when he's injured, admitting things aren't 100% copacetic back at the motel-du-jour. What's next? Buying a damn house in Unalaska? Paint the picket fence white?

"Then you get your ass back up here and we go out and grab us some cod. And some opies." Alex sits back, broad grin in place. "Great job, kick-ass pay. Go home this spring and buy your dad a new fucking car or something."

"He loves his truck," Dean says. The whiskey tastes like wood ashes. He tips back the last swallow and makes a face. "Yeah, maybe so. I gotta. Gotta think about it, man."

"What's to think about? You gotta finish out the season."

"What I gotta do? Is hit the head," Dean pronounces.

The bathroom, he discovers, is beyond disgusting. Outside the back way the weather instantly reminds him how nice it must be in Oklahoma just around now. No matter what it's doing there, it can't be as bad as this zero-degree wind in his face, the snow stinging his skin. He takes a leak on the lee side of a storage shed, hopes no chicks are around because damn, some parts of him really and truly hate the cold, and goes back inside to pay his tab.

Sees Gib at the table and feels his heart sink.

"So," Dean says, sliding back into his chair.

The rest of the guys go silent. Gib just watches him. "Staying?"

Dean draws a deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. "Yeah," he says, and grins.

"Awesome!" Alex leans over to hug his shoulder and nearly knocks both of them out of their chairs.

"Dude, space," Dean mumbles, and shakes his head. "Hey, skip, when do we ship out?"

"Wednesday, week from today." Gib exhales a plume of smoke. "Dark and early."

Dean takes out his wallet and extracts a twenty, lays it on the table. "I'll be back by then, okay?"

Gib nods slowly. "Oklahoma?"

"Just -- see how he's doing. Couple, few days."

"See you then."

* * *

He takes one of Larry's Valiums before the flight out. It is the happiest goddamn flying he's ever done. Also, he can't remember where he left the car. But eventually there she is, shiny under her drab black tarp, and coffee clears his head enough to navigate. It feels like he went all the way down to the Yucatan, it's so warm here. He's down to his tee shirt by the time he pulls into the motel parking lot.

He knocks, because -- well, it's been three weeks. Dad might not actually be expecting him. Taps the door with the toe of his boot for good measure. "Dude, it's me."

Dad finally answers, slow because of the cast. He looks relieved, and more than a little surprised. "Thought you were fishing," he says, grinning and thumping Dean on the back.

"I was."

"How was the catch?"

Dean unfolds the check in his pocket and extends it between two fingers. Dad looks at it and whistles, and Dean smirks. "Buy you a beer?"

"Six-pack, at least."

"Deal."

They end up with a case, and they crack more than a few, just sitting around that evening shooting the shit. According to Dad, the cast comes off in a week, and there's some therapy after that.

"Yeah," Dean snorts. "You in physical therapy. Since when?"

Dad tilts back the bottle for the last drops. "Since I caught fifty staring me in the eye," he says, and thumps his chest before producing a ringing belch. "'Scuse me if you heard me."

"Coulda heard that in Dutch."

"You goin' back?"

Dean pauses, and then gives a short nod. "Thought I would. Earn us some more scratch. You know."

In the lamplight Dad's eyes are dark, hard to read. "How long?"

"Cod next week, take us out for a month, maybe five weeks. Then it's opie season."

"What in the fuck are opies."

Dean grins. "Opilio. Snow crab, dude. The little guys."

"Whatever you say. So when are you done?"

Dean's smile slips away. "End of January. Give you time to get that leg back in shape, Gimpy. Figure February we head out, you know? Back on the road. And well funded."

Dad nods slowly, and pops the cap on another beer.

* * *

It sounded like a decent chunk of time, nearly a week to visit, but it's over fast. He's busy taking care of shit for Dad, restocking supplies, doing laundry, washing the truck. The clippings wallpapering the room speak of how restless the guy's getting, but it's looking like he'll stay put, at least for the moment. Dean thinks about last year's silent spell, Dad's reaction when Dean put him through some of the same treatment up on the Bering.

Well, shit, if Dad skips town at least Dean's got his cell number. At the moment he's going to focus on putting some of his paycheck to good use, and getting his ass back to Dutch on time.

At the ass-crack of dawn on Monday, he heads over to the tiny bank and buys a money order for $1500. The post office a block down the street has envelopes, and he writes down the address he keeps in his wallet and hands it to the sleepy-looking postal lady.

"Can you send it certified, something? I wanna make sure he gets it. Just him."

She nods without looking at him. "There's restricted delivery, too. We'll only deliver to him."

"Sounds right."

"Return receipt? He'd have to sign it."

Dean shakes his head. "Won't be here to get it. How long till it gets there?"

"California? Three to five days. You could do priority mail. That's two days."

"That'll work."

He pays, and feels a wash of grief crest over him, watching her toss the envelope onto a tray. Blinking, he heads out the door and stands in the bright, warm sunlight, and thinks, Buy some books, Sammy. You always loved those damn books.

* * *

"You got everything you need, right?"

"Dean." Dad gives him a look as dry as his voice. "I'm the father, you're the son. I can take pretty good care of myself, all right? Get your ass moving, or you're gonna miss your plane."

Dean keeps his hand on the doorknob, doesn't move. "Call me on the ship if you need me. I mean, reception's for crap most of the time, but if it's urgent they can --"

"Dude, I know how to reach you if I need to. You just don't fall in the damn ocean, got it?"

Dean smiles, but it feels shaky. "Not plannin' on it, no."

"All right then. Go on. Earn me some money."

This time it feels okay to laugh.

In the car, pointed down the highway to the airport, it occurs to him that maybe it feels wrong because he wants to get back. Wants to get back out there, the blacky-black sea, smell the salt and feel the wind slap his face.

He can't wait, and he doesn't quite know what to do with that.

"This how it felt, Sammy?" he whispers to the empty car. "Stanford, college, getting what you wanted?"

He can't imagine what Sammy would say. It stays with him while he parks the car, pops his pill in the airport bathroom, waits for his flight to be called. Doesn't fade until the Valium does its magic.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Cod fishing is every bit as smelly, cold, and disgusting as crab, and it means four weeks on the boat instead of ten days. Broken up by occasional trips to the processor, one three-day stint back in Dutch, but mostly it's fishing, waiting, fishing, and some more fishing.

A week out, Gary shakes his head and grins and says, "You're a fucking natural, Lucky."

He isn't, not the way he is with salt in his pocket and a gun in his hand. But damned if the Bering hasn't started to feel comfortable, a little. Familiar in her dark, ice-cold stark beauty, her bitchiness, her danger. His legs remember her motion, his belly no longer revolts. He hates the cold, the ice, the snow, the wet, and he relishes it, like a ten-mile run at speed, the burn in his muscles, the sharp knife in his side, the ache in his lungs. The Bering Sea is an unyielding adversary, giving up her treasure reluctantly and only after a struggle, never without a reminder that she is far, far more powerful than any human.

He digs it. He gets off on it, tired and every muscle in his body fried, sprained fingers and swollen ankle and eyes permanently red from salt and exhaustion, he fucking loves it.

So yeah. Maybe he's a little bit of a natural.

Part of it's the crew. Larry, who time has revealed to be the boat's half-assed counselor, the old dude, although forty-six ain't exactly old anywhere but on a crab boat's deck. Alex is irritating and exuberant and five times as likely as Sammy to ever get his skinny ass in trouble, and Dean sometimes can't decide whether to punch him or maybe just go ahead and shove him overboard and not catch him this time, but the boat would be fucking boring without his crazy grin on board.

Gary's got a much-read King James bible by his bunk and a temper that doesn't much bother with turning the other cheek, and he and Dave don't always get along; Dave's got a record as long as Alex's gangly arm and gang tatts all over, and he's used to settling disagreements with fists or 45s. Dean sports a multicolored black eye for a week after getting between them one night, late, everybody exhausted and Gary spoiling for a fight. Seeing the damage the next day leads to reluctant apologies, for once looking pretty heartfelt, and there aren't any more fights that trip.

Sometimes, when he's been on deck sixteen or twenty hours and it's dark, he looks up at the wheelhouse and thinks he sees his dad up there. Never mind his dad doesn't smoke, and to Dean's knowledge never set foot on a boat, seagoing or otherwise.

They finish up with the cod, finally, then a week on land before it's opilio season. The pay scale for cod's a lot lower than crab, but they've offloaded five times, and the check is even bigger. Dean cashes it at one of the banks, immediately converts most of it into two cashier's checks and sends them certified mail. He doesn't need it, not at the moment; he's got a bunk at Larry's craphole apartment, and hell, they'll be back on the Bering this time next week. Ain't a lot of places to spend money at sea.

He calls his dad the night before opie season starts.

"You done yet?"

"Not yet. Opies tomorrow. Week or two." Dean frowns and tastes his beer. "Why?"

"I'm in St. Louis right now, got a gig. Could use your help."

Dean sits back in his chair, ignores the thump from the jukebox, Alex jabbering to his girlfriend Alicia across the table. "Dude, I'm kinda busy right now," he says. "Getting our walkaround money, remember? You get the check?"

"Yeah, thanks. So you get done, you head on over, all right? Don't mess around."

For a moment he can barely see. Anger, red and blinding, pulses in his vision. "'Mess around?' I'm bustin' my ass up here, Dad, you think this is a goddamn pleasure cruise?"

Dad's silent for a second. "Just don't want you to forget your priorities."

Not much fucking chance of that, Dean thinks, and tastes bitter on his tongue before he slams the rest of his beer. "I'll call you when we get into port," he says curtly.

"Dean --"

He snaps the phone shut and tosses it on the table. When he looks up Alex and Alicia are watching him, silent and careful.

"What?" Dean snaps.

"Dude," Alex says slowly. "You okay?"

Dean produces the best grin he can. Not all that great if Alicia's big eyes are any indication. "Just ready to go get some crab," he says, and waves at the waitress.

* * *

There's a greenhorn on board for opie season, a cousin of some friend of Gib's mailman's son-in-law or some shit like that. Dean takes a good look at him and doesn't like what he sees. Kid should be in college, all soft and clueless like that. Not out here bustin' his ass and getting his hands dirty.

"Ethan'll do all right," says Gib mildly when Dean shows up in the wheelhouse. "He'll learn." He cocks an eyebrow. "You did."

Dean blows a sigh. "I was born smarter than this kid, skip."

"So take him under your wing. Make sure he doesn't get into trouble."

"Gee, thanks," Dean mutters, and doesn't miss Gib's tiny smile.

He shows Ethan the chipper, and sees the shock on the kid's soft face. Dean grimaces and says, "Look. It ain't that bad, all right?"

Ethan stares at him.

"Okay, it's bad. But look, we've all done it. I did it, and I survived. Hell, I came back, okay?"

"Okay," Ethan says unsteadily. Dean's seen better color on corpses.

"You gonna hork?"

"N-no."

"Okay, then."

He does, but that's okay. Kid'll do all right.

He's coming out of the head, trying not to smell the aroma, and sees Gary hustling by, in a hurry.

"We starting already?" Dean asks, surprised.

"EPIRB's gone off. The _Big Valley_."

Dean trails behind him, up to the wheelhouse. It's crowded, all the guys mashed together, and it's way too quiet.

"EPIRB's the beacon we all carry," Larry tells him in a low voice. "Emergency."

"Don't know yet if she went down," Gib says to all of them. His face is pale under the permanent tan. The cigarette in his hand shakes. "Might just be a bogey."

A chill snakes down Dean's spine. "Jesus," he whispers.

The mood is bad, and gets worse when one of the ships south of their position spots some debris. Nothing they can do; they're a couple hundred miles north of the EPIRB's beacon, and even if they were closer, a few minutes in Bering waters and not many people are still alive to rescue.

There's no fishing that day, and into the night. Just waiting, waiting for news, for anything at all. One guy's rescued, but that's it. No more good news, barely any news at all.

Over chow no one wants to eat, Gib tells them they're moving on, gonna drop some pots in a couple of hours.

There are some nods, but no one says anything. Dean pokes his food with his fork and swallows. This kind of nausea has nothing to do with the sea, and everything, too.

On deck, Alex sticks close, silent and wide-eyed. Dean isn't sure what to say. If it were Sammy, he'd know, but Sammy's safe on dry land, warm, and this here ain't warm, ain't safe, not by a long shot.

He bumps Alex's shoulder with his own, avoids Alex's scared look, and fixes his eyes on the blackness where the horizon should be. They got crab to catch.

* * *

The loss of the _Big Valley_ is some kinda omen, something. Barely two hours into dropping pots, Gary slips on the never-ending ice and knocks himself out cold, pukes a few times after he comes around.

"Maybe a concussion," Larry says when they've got Gary down below.

"No maybe about it." Dean watches Gary's pupils, sighs. "Skip?"

Gib looks more tired than Dean can remember seeing. Couple of guys on the _Big Valley_ were friends of his; it's taken the wind out of his sails. "Sit tonight out," he tells Gary, shaking his head when the dude tries to talk him out of it.

One man short, and Ethan's practically giving himself a hernia trying to hang bait fast, but nothing's gonna make that kid fast, he's slower than sap in fucking winter, so Dean helps him out, shows him how it's done. Gary's the crane guy and doesn't give it up often or lightly, so Larry's rusty, swings a few pots around and nearly brains Dave, who always tends to think Larry wants to kill him anyway, so there's some yelling, and Gib getting on the horn to do some yelling of his own.

Larry gets better with the crane but not fast enough to keep Dean from leaning back to miss it, too far and something in his back goes "sproing" and he slips and lands flat on the ice-rimed deck. A wave crests over the side, douses him with 33-degree water, and he's lying there like a bug, legs waving in the air.

Peering down at him, Dave says, "Kinda slippery. What with the ice and all."

"Holy shit," Dean wheezes from the deck.

It takes Alex and Ethan both to winch him off the ice, and even before he's vertical he knows he's blown something in his back, some muscle torn or some shit. So much for being lucky.

He sucks it up the best he can, leaves Ethan to his own bait doom and stays by the rail, but by the time Gib calls a few hours' halt Dean's about to puke, himself, from the pain.

"Lucky threw his back out," Alex reports when they meet up down below.

"Narc," Dean gasps, but he's bent at the waist, could not stand straight if the alternative were walking the goddamn plank.

Gib feeds him pills and makes him lie down for a while. By the time the pots are ready to come up, Dean's back is no better but whatever Gib gave him makes him not give a shit, so he lumbers out on deck with the rest and does what he can. Their luck may be for shit, but they're on the crab, for the most part, and after a couple of hours Dean looks around and starts to laugh.

"The fuck you laughin' at," Dave growls.

Dean wipes his eyes and gets a wave in the face for his effort, and keeps right on laughing. "We," he gasps, "are the fucking sorriest bunch of --" He can't, just sprays laughter, and after a minute Ethan lets out a high giggle, claps his hand over his mouth.

Then they're all laughing, Gary with a lump the size of a suitcase of his balding head, Dave looking like he doesn't quite get the joke but can't resist anyway. Ethan's about to piss himself he's cracking up so hard, that kind of wheezy sound when you're too tired to stand on your own two feet.

Larry claps a big hand on Dean's shoulder, and it doesn't even matter that it hurts his back like a son of a bitch. "Come on," Larry says, and gives a deep guffaw of a laugh. "Let's fucking get this crab before it gets us."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Not a one of them gets through opie season without damage, not even Gib, who slips coming down from the wheelhouse and twists his knee, bad enough to swell up the size of a cantaloupe by the time they reach the processor.

Dean's turned into what passes for a ship medic, and wraps Gib's knee tight, then Larry's bum wrist. His own back is still royally pissed at him, but he can at least mostly straighten up now, and it's the kind of injury that'll heal on its own, probably better than Gib's will.

"Got any crutches on board?" he asks. "You're gonna need 'em."

Gib shrugs and pats his shoulder. "I stay put, mostly, and when I don't, I got you boys."

Dean smiles. "Go to a fucking doctor, dude."

"All in good time."

The crab look good, still wriggling, and according to Gib they did "all right," which Dean's brain translates from Gib-speak as "fucking excellent." And weird, but Dutch Harbor looks like home, brightly lit in the darkness. It's snowing heavily, wind driving the flakes straight into his face, but Dean feels warmer, seeing Dutch ahead.

"What's next, Lucky?" Alex asks brightly, already jittering from foot to foot like a little kid needing to go to the bathroom. Probably just excited to see his girlfriend.

Dean accepts one of the cigarettes Alex holds out, manages to get it lit in the stiff wind, and shakes his head. "Catch up with my dad, see what's up. Said he had a job for us when I get there."

"Back next year?"

Dean smiles, looks at the harbor lights beckoning. "Not sure yet. Maybe."

* * *

Gib's already got a table at the Elbow Room when Dean gets there.

"First one's on me," Dean tells him.

"All right, then."

But when the other guys straggle in Gib gives them a look, tiny shake of the head. Dean frowns. "What's up, skip?"

"Wanted to have a word."

He waits until their drinks arrive, and toasts Dean silently before downing the bourbon like water. "Coming back next fall?" Gib asks without preamble.

"Gotta --"

"I saw you, the way you work with the men. Keep them going, keep 'em level." Gib pours them each another shot, pushes Dean's glass at him. "Aren't many men can keep themselves on their feet, not to mention help the others. Gary's thinking about getting out, starting his own business. Dry land. That puts me short one deck boss."

Dean swallows the shot, feels the burn like welcome fire in his throat. "I see."

"You'd be my first choice."

"Skip --"

"Alex's too young. Good kid, making a fine fisherman, but he's got some growing to do. Larry, well, he don't like to give orders, and Dave -- Well. You've seen Dave."

Dean nods slowly, and reaches over to take the bottle. "Gib," he says slowly, "you know me and my dad, we -- I don't always know where we'll be, what's gonna happen. If I did, I'd shake on it right now. But that's the truth, man, I gotta wait and see. Business we're in."

Gib drinks his booze, makes a face. "Mind a little unsolicited advice?" he asks.

Dean smiles. "Just this once."

"Maybe the business you and your dad are in -- Maybe it ain't the business you oughta be in."

Dean draws a long breath. "Now wait --"

"Tell me you don't love this crazy shit we do."

"Man, you know I do, just --"

"All I'm asking. Think about it. Another two, three years, I'm gonna retire. This fucking knee needs replacing, known it for fifteen years now, and I'm not getting any younger. When I retire I'd like to see you skipper this boat."

"Dude --"

"I call them like I see 'em," Gib lumbers on, solid as granite. "You were a fisherman who hadn't found the sea yet. Now you have, and you sit there and try to tell me you don't know that. Know it in your bones. Experience is all well and good, but a couple more years and you'll have all of that you need, and you already got the sense of it, the feel of it. Being skipper ain't all about knowing where the crab are, Dean. Being skipper's about a whole lot of other things, sometimes far more important things. Those, you got. You had, first day you threw up on my boat."

Dean sits with his mouth open, saying nothing because he can't think of a word to say.

"You know I don't own this boat, but the man that does'll hire you on my say. Already mentioned you to him. Work next to me, couple more seasons, you'll have all the training you need. The men like you, Dean, hell, I think a couple of 'em love you and would throw themselves in after you if it came down to it. That quality -- It's rare, Lucky, rare as hens' teeth."

"Skip," Dean says weakly. "Come on."

"Want me to make it easy on you?" Gib asks, and snorts. "Fuck that. I'm dead serious here. I won't push you to decide now, but I'll make damn sure you know what's at stake. It's good money, and it's -- Well, you know it's a good life. Dangerous, insane, but you already love it. So you think about it. You think long and hard about what it is you want. Not your daddy, _you_." He slams a fourth shot of bourbon, smacks the glass down on the table. "And then you got my number."

"Yeah," Dean says after a moment. "I do, skip."

Gib lumbers to his feet, wrestling with his brand-new crutches. One hand lands warm and heavy on Dean's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Lucky. See you in October."

* * *

"See you got the cast off."

Dad nods, gives him a fast, distracted smile. "You hungry? Diner next door, not too bad."

Dean slings his duffel on the second bed and shrugs. "I could eat."

Over thick burgers and the best fries he thinks he's ever tasted, Dad says, "So, this job."

"Yeah."

"Was thinking we'd take care of this revenant, then head on over to Florida. Got a guy I need to see there."

It isn't Dean's job Dad's asking about, he realizes, and takes a sip of his Coke. It's a hunt, the real job. Like he'd never left. Like none of it had ever happened, except cashing the check.

He swallows his bite with difficulty. "Fill me in," he says steadily.

That evening, Dad's sitting at the table with papers slung every which way, head down and that groove between his brows, the one Dean learned as a kid to notice. Dad's "I'm thinking, do not disturb" frown.

He grabs his jacket before going outside, sees the mermaid curled on the back, that seductive look. Calling him back. His smile fades, and he puts on the jacket, smells salt and fish and sweat.

It's almost warm outside, barely needs the jacket. It's two blocks to the supermarket, and the Western Union chick is still there. He wires the money, and then picks up another case of beer, a few groceries. M&amp;Ms.

There's a seafood case at the back of the store. Stinks, smells like money. He stands staring down at the fish, few lobsters moping around in salt water. Packages of crab legs, expensive as shit.

"Can I help you with something?" a girl asks behind the counter. "Crab legs? They're worth it."

Dean looks at her and grins. "Trust me. They're worth more than that."

Her smile fades, and she looks puzzled before he turns away.

Back at the motel, he sets a beer by his dad's hand, and says, "Gonna hit the sack."

Dad gives him a distracted smile. "Night, son."

"Night, Dad," Dean whispers.

 

The gods do not deduct from man's allotted span the hours spent in fishing. (Babylonian proverb)

 

**END**


End file.
